


Left Myself in the Mohave

by ColtMagnon (Necronon)



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, During Canon, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Resident Evil 2, Pre-Resident Evil 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27135469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necronon/pseuds/ColtMagnon
Summary: Leon's ordeal during the Raccoon City Outbreak was just the beginning. Add to that hardass instructor Jack Krauser, a man who'll be inextricably and unexpectedly interwoven with Leon's path forward. He expects contention, but the nascent stirrings of something other feel a lot like trouble.
Relationships: Leon S. Kennedy/Jack Krauser
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	Left Myself in the Mohave

**Author's Note:**

> RE2 remake and nostalgia forced me to re-post this fairly old work that's been torn down for years. Not polished from its original state and unsure if the sequels (never published) will be shared. Mostly canon compliant with some liberties, and written with plans to follow Leon and Jack's rocky relationship from 2, across Darkside and 4, until present. Post original RE2. Figured some might still enjoy it since the fandom lives, although this pairing is (probably?) niche now.

After the outbreak, his life had become a series of small rooms, suits, and sleepless nights--people across a table asking the questions that he’d wanted to ask. About Arklay, the virus, S.T.A.R.S. and its MIA captain.

His first and last day on the force. Hundreds still missing, a disaster declared, and Umbrella in the shadow of it all again.

He was the only officer left that wasn’t critical, almost the only one altogether, though his gunshot wound had caused a stir. His blood work had come back negative, wouldn’t tell him for exactly what, but they were pushing for a psych eval. Every badge in the Bureau suddenly wanted to sidle up to him, looking like big white thumbs in their hazmat suits.

He was still trying to get his head around the idea that his favorite dives were now part of a massive quarantine ordered by the CDC and DoD. That all those friends he’d meant to catch up with over a drink were probably gone. That if he turned on the television, he’d see smoking ruins with armored transport rolling down Main. Soldiers with carbines. Sobbing interviewees, blurry stills of charred infrastructure, and the fuselage of a 747 that had gone down next to the airport, taking out part of the terminal.

_Ada, face soft and body cooling in his arms._

He’d been staying with his aunt upstate when he received an apocryphal letter in the mail signed by one Calvin Reinard, Director of Clandestine Crisis Response and Prevention; then a subsequent visit from a very real person claiming to work for an auxiliary sub-committee of the government commanding a paramilitary SMU.

Humiliation had cemented the moment in his mind.

When he’d answered the door, he was halfway through a beer for breakfast (Aunt Patty’s fridge wasn’t really for much else) and attired solely in borrowed flannel bottoms, blinking owlishly at the deputy director as he introduced himself. Otherwise unaffected by Leon’s state of undress, dim expression, and the ugly wound on his side. He’d come to politely remind Leon that he had a flight to catch and people to see. Very important people, if the man shadowing his doorstep, _Nice suit, Agent Smith_ , was any indication.

_Your friendly B.O.W. mop-up crew wants YOU!_

Leon was pretty sure he hadn’t seen those posters around, and he wondered when the world had gotten bad enough to merit founding something like CCRPA.

Oh, right. Probably when the world had turned into one of John Carpenter’s wet dreams. The latent images of Raccoon’s monstrosities still crept behind his eyes, waiting for Leon’s vulnerable REM cycle. He’d never sleep soundly again and idly wished he’d had time to ask Claire about her brother and Arklay.

Where was she now? Was she okay? And where had they taken Sherry? Someone really needed to start answering _his_ questions for a change.

As it turned out, Agent Smith was actually Deputy Director Vince Childs--a gaunt man with bottomless black eyes and a mile-wide shark’s smile that Leon steadfastly disliked--and the CCR-whatever-the-hell was, in fact, not a very elaborate hoax. He was made an offer: a chance to _do the right thing_ and _stop this from ever happening again._ An opportunity to utilize his knowledge and skills to serve his country and her people. They were recruiting for a deep-recon SMU spearheaded by Director Reinard, and Leon had caught their dubious attention.

In retrospect, it was probably a front for keeping him under their thumb, but he was young and had eaten all their _best of the best_ pitch up. All the chauvinistic BS the naive idealist within him--the same one that needed a new direction and purpose after his ordeal--foamed at the mouth for. He’d been low-hanging fruit, like he’d been when he’d joined the RPD, because he wanted to be a hero and because women loved the uniform.

Mostly because he wanted no part in expanding _Kennedy Repair and Automotive_ into _Kennedy and Sons Repair and Automotive._ And his old man thought he’d never get serious and amount to anything.

 _First damn day, and people start eating each other!_ he’d say if he were still alive, then slap him on the back of the head like he’d caused the whole mess.

In the end, Leon had made his flight. It was easy to pack light when everything he owned had been razed to the ground with his apartment. He’d taken the manila envelope that had been pressed over the table to him with slow emphasis; agreed to dates set; signed papers, especially the ones with words like _confidentiality, liability,_ and _non-disclosure;_ and shook hands.

He was going to be part of something big, something important, be someone that could really make a difference. What he didn’t expect to find was some species of love with a brand new hell hot on his heels.

* * *

_**Four months later at the Fort Hubris CCRPA Training Center, Nevada.**_

The first month was basic combat training. Leon was one of two recruits not pulled right out of JSOC, and found himself the odd duck in a handful of marines and SEALs, always under the scrutiny of their assigned instructor: USSOCOM hardass “ _run, princess, run!”_ Jack Krauser.

The German surname should have warned him.

Jack Krauser was the bane of Leon’s miserable existence during his first few weeks at Fort Hubris. Every time he took the stock of a carbine to the gut or had his shoulder ripped out of its socket, Krauser was there to make it that much worse. When he was gassed for the first time and was on the ground, eyes swollen shut, coughing, and snot streaming down his face, Krauser was there to put a boot in his side-- _Kennedy, you sad sack of shit, get up!--_ like it wasn’t all awful, like every inch of Leon’s body didn’t feel like an open wound. He was one giant bruise, a black eye, and a shitty buzz cut.

But he didn’t wash out. Didn’t even know if they’d let him.

He’d stopped thinking about Raccoon. The nightmares were few and far between, but Leon figured that was the product of sheer exhaustion and being allotted almost no time in which to actually sleep in the first place. As much as he wanted to cuss and kick and scream and knock his fucking instructor off his high horse, he was grateful. He finally had some semblance of structure in his life.

And he wasn’t half bad.

To everyone’s, but mostly Krauser’s _,_ surprise, Leon had incapacitated Lyles and Mopey, previously the gorilla’s star pupils, during a multiple combatants scenario. And you can bet he rode the high of his victory--and the look on Krauser’s face--for _days_. He was no longer the last to finish his laps, the first to fall out in a cloud of CS. He was even giving the Big Guy a run for his money, and getting a little respect for it.

At some point, Krauser had become marginally more tolerable.

Leon could barely believe it when, after a flawless reversal during their CQC and small arms session, the man clapped an amiable hand on his shoulder and said, _Good work, kid._ A tragically short-lived kindness, because Leon had immediately responded by clocking his superior in the nose and breaking it. Leon had watched in horror as the man’s face slowly cinched into a look of inexorable rage before returning the favor so that they had matching frowns and swollen faces for the next week. In the future, Krauser was sure to make himself known before approaching him.

Krauser had said one evening, gesturing to Leon’s bruised nose, _Not so pretty now, huh?_ to which Leon remarked, _At least_ _it was once,_ and Krauser made a sound in the back of his throat that Leon thought, just maybe, was something like laughter.

Leon wasn’t sure when or how it had happened, but before the first month was over, he and Krauser had become tentative friends. Leon was worried Krauser was going to be one of those that couldn’t bear his pupil surpassing him, but when Leon would turn the tables on the bigger man, Krauser’s usually grim expression lit up _._ He was genuinely impressed, and Leon was excited in turn. The bastard could smile after all. A kind of crooked, ugly thing, but after the harsh treatment Leon had endured, it was nothing short of a miracle; attractive because it meant Leon was safe from an elbow to the kidney, and because Leon didn’t have to wonder if it was genuine. Rare but absolutely infectious, and okay, Leon could admit that maybe his instructor was human and not so terribly bad looking.

So, another evening, he told Krauser just that.

_Hey, you’re almost good looking when you’re not bangin’ your fists on your chest._

But he’d said it too softly and with an inflection that gave Krauser visible pause. A beat had passed and then the man had offered Leon a measured smile and left, leaving him to contemplate what had just happened.

Oops.

It was different after that. A few seconds and a few words, and now the two couldn’t share a room without an elephant. Leon started to notice Krauser’s trailing eyes. Brief glances over a stooped shoulder as they parted company, a guarded aspect to his speech like he was carefully plucking each word from his mind so that he didn’t say something else altogether.

Leon was terrified he’d given himself away, that Krauser was thinking, _Oh, the kid actually is a fairy,_ and Leon was going to get the worst kind of backlash, because there’s no explaining that, yeah, he liked women--he just liked guys, too. Or in their case, a big idiot gorilla.

Maybe it’d pass. Just misguided reverence for a superior. Even though he couldn’t recall ever being reverent, and they were, more and more, on equal footing.

_Oops._

* * *

Basic was behind him, and while the specialized classes were grueling, Leon was no longer being driven, body and soul, into the ground. Criminal psychology had become a fairly integral part of their training, and they were always running recon scenarios and working with new gear that had the R&D boys buzzing with excitement.

But for every one thing he enjoyed, there was something he didn’t--a drone recovery and recon field test for every “surviving rape and torture” lecture, like the one recently given by Deputy Director Childs. Who, Leon learned, was retired from the field but had been a successful HUMINT operative for another SMU during the war. Well-decorated, published (a gruesome account of Childs’ work overseas titled _Hands_ _That Hurt_ ), and as always, an unsettling presence.

Leon had jumped when, on his way out, a lanky hand had caught his wrist.

Childs had pulled him to the side to congratulate him on breaking a course record--Leon had already forgotten about it--and ask Leon how he was getting along.

 _How’s the nose? If you ever have any questions, I’ll always lend an ear. I keep an open door_ _policy. Stop by any time._

Leon had forced out a tight _thank you, Sir,_ _not liking the way the man held onto him a little too long,_ and excused himself for mess.

* * *

There was a magical hour in the early morning between a little too cool and scalding that Leon liked to occasionally utilize for a run. Cool and dry, a fleeting reprieve before the hot Nevada sun turned the base into an inferno, and he savored every minute of it. Precious time alone. Precious _time._

When he finished his second circuit and stopped to tug his shirt up over his shoulders and use it to sponge the sweat from his face, he realized he wasn’t alone.

Krauser was looking on from where he was propped against the bed of a matte gray truck across the field, arms crossed and expression indecipherable. Leon shielded his eyes and made a lazy gesture of acknowledgment before heading back to the barracks to shower--because he didn’t know what else to do, why Krauser had been observing him, and how long he’d been doing it.

He still felt eyes on him as he stripped and set to scrubbing, eager to finish and get off the base for a while, but no one was ever there when he turned to look.

It wasn’t until the following Saturday that Leon surmised the man had gone sweet on him, and by then, Leon was already in the game. He’d always been a shameless flirt, so it was familiar territory: a hand lingering too long, knuckles brushing, shoulders, a smile that was soft and receptive. An ex had called his mouth pornographic once, and though he’d laughed about it at the time, now it was precious intel.

Captain Nemo after his Nautilus. Krauser was as fucking big, anyways.

Leon found he’d sorely missed the finesse of seduction. Even the awkward fumbling when he’d outright botch a move, because he’d always liked _people._ Things had changed after Raccoon, but somehow, in pursuit of his instructor (God, _stop him_ ), he was finding those old pieces of himself and slotting them back together.

He’d decided to make a move after his morning run. Leon, after a great deal of persuasion, had convinced Krauser to join him in a night out on the town. Which was actually a hot day at a taco truck not far from Fort Hubris that served mean _churros_ and half-price tequila to active-duty patrons. No doubt for looking the other way regarding the legality of their establishment and of themselves. What Leon hadn’t expected was to actually have a decent time and meaningful conversation.

“’Good men who do nothing,’ and all that,” Krauser said. “This world won’t ever change if people just sit by, afraid.”

Leon was looking contemplatively at the hand-painted mural of a _ranchero_ on a rearing mustang that covered most of the tin siding that quartered off a small bar and exterior dining area they sat in. Sand hissed against the buffer, a soft whisper beneath the sound of melodic mariachi that sang from an old cassette player perched on the edge of a table.

“I guess that’s as good a reason as any, if you’re going to commit your life to something.” Leon shrugged noncommittally, and added, “I just want to travel.”

Krauser shot him an accosted look, but relaxed when Leon let slip a smile and bit off an inch of rolled tortilla.

“You know, I didn’t expect much out of you,” Krauser said, glancing over at him.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Figured Raccoon was a fluke. People get lucky. But now I see that wasn’t the case.”

“I guess,” Leon said. “You do what you have to.”

“Adapt or die.”

“Yeah? But how far is too far?”

“No such thing.”

Leon arched a brow and sat up. “I don’t know about that...”

“Better get to knowin’ it, kid. You’re in the big leagues now. You’re not going to like everything that’s asked of you.”

“Still, though--at what point does ‘in the name of humanity’ strip you of yours.”

“Kid, there’s no such thing as humanity. Just a bunch of animals trying to keep their heads above the water, even if that means standing on another’s. There will always be sacrifices.”

“We’ll agree to disagree.” Leon paused as the cook came around to where Krauser was seated and clapped him on the shoulder. They conversed in Spanish for a while, Leon unable to translate more than a few words, some of which had been directed at him. He had no idea he’d one day sorely regret never picking up the skill. After the guy left, Leon changed the topic: “Wife? Kids?”

It was hard to imagine, but Leon wanted to put everything on the table.

“Maybe,” Krauser said.

“How do you ‘maybe’ kids and a wife?” Leon asked, dubious.

“I just never found the time. Now leave it alone.”

“Never found someone that could stand you long enough is more like it.” Leon put an elbow in the man’s side, trying to lighten the mood.

“Found you.”

Krauser had probably meant it as a barb, _Got stuck with you instead,_ but Leon said, “Y _eah, you did,” anyways, and_ held Krauser’s gaze. Testing the waters.

Krauser met the challenge head on and stared right back, all overcast eyes and poker face--a look a less observant Leon would have mistaken for indifference, but he saw the man’s tight mouth slacken, a hairline fissure in his calm facade.

_Oh, yeah. Hook, line, and sinker._

Leon pressed his luck and made like he was relaxing back on his stool and finishing his food. Only Krauser would know the firm press of a knee against his thigh insinuated anything more than incidental contact.

“Finish up, Kennedy, we’re leaving.”

“What? You haven’t even--”

“Do it.”

 _Shit,_ if he’d misread him the entire time, Krauser was liable to string him up for that.

“ _Krauser--”_

“I will drag you, Kennedy.”

_Shit-shit-shit!_

Leon was starting to panic as they paid their tabs and crowded back into the humvee. Krauser was silent and kept his eyes on the road, and Leon just _knew_ he was pissed. When the man jerked the wheel and veered off the road into the desert, all the blood left Leon’s face. His knuckles were white by the time Krauser parked, threw an arm over the back of his seat so he could turn to look at him, and said, “You jerkin’ me around?”

When Leon didn’t immediately respond, Krauser thumped him on the shoulder.

“You deaf?”

“No, I--”

“Answer the question.”

“...no?”

“’No,’ you won’t answer the question, or ‘no,’ you’re not--”

“Not jerkin’ you around.”

Krauser was quiet. Then he said, “A _lright_ _,”_ and drove the rest of the way back to base, Leon as nonplussed upon arrival as he’d been after their conversation.

Then, one following Saturday evening on his way back to base, he was run off the roar and taken. Hell. That was something he thought he’d faced in Raccoon. He was wrong.

* * *

He never saw their faces, and only ever heard one speak. The rest he knew by their hard hands and biting fingers--the way one would rock the chair back and smooth a damp cloth over the lower half of his face beneath his blindfold and intermittently pour a steady stream of water while the other bent close and promised him freedom and reprieve if he’d give up a few names.

Cold water. Burning lungs. Humid breath against the shell of his ear each time the man spoke.

Panic, and then a promise, and panic again.

But he never caved. Not even when the questions stopped for the day and his jailers left to be replaced an hour or so after by a silent third party. Not even when he was loosed from the chair, gagged, and fucked against the concrete.

By the time someone was touching him to cut him free and place him on a cot, he was dehydrated and dusted with bruises, crusted-over lacerations from hurried fingernails peppering his thighs and shoulders.

He could pick out a few words. Unfamiliar voices.

“ _How did...happen. Cameras . . . could they?”_

“ _. . . went wrong.”_

“ _Jesus.”_

It was during Operation Javier, almost a year after the incident, that he’d finally learn the whole story.

* * *

_**Columbia, just outside of Mixcoatl.** _

Leon thumbed a drop of sweat hanging on the tip of his nose and passively watched his partner disassemble his pistol.

The thick, wet air was as unforgiving of them as it was their equipment. A constant weight on his shoulders made all the more unpleasant by the grueling task of trudging through marsh that sucked their feet into the mud and clouded them in a host of hungry insects. The leeches were the least of his concern, though Leon had been sure to shuck off his boots and roll up his pant legs to check for stowaways once they were under cover. It was raining again, hard, so they’d decided to take some time out.

Leon was sitting on a chewed-up old crate with his heels on a flattened cardboard box, socks hanging like limp fish from the bar of a rusted clotheshorse as if there was a real chance of them getting any drier. His boots were propped up by the door, the leech he’d found attached to the recess beneath his patella stinking like char in the sink after Krauser had, without ceremony, put his cigar out on the thing’s back and plucked it from the floor.

Neither of them had addressed their time together back at HQ, or anything else for that matter. They were on the job, Krauser no more than a friendly asset at his side. If Krauser noticed his uncharacteristically no-nonsense disposition, his lack of jibes and harmless horseplay, he didn’t say. Leon didn’t ask what he knew, what he’d been told. Why his expression was sometimes hard before he’d avert his eyes.

Little did they know, they had a real shit show ahead of them.


End file.
